Training

~erotica~


With his hand on the center of her chest, he firmly pushed her up against the wall. She hit with a loud thud, a smile on her face. "Thank you, sweetheart," she said, her dimples prominent on her cheeks.

His hand remained on her chest; his other was by her head, as he leaned against the wall and into her. His head was bent down. He breathed heavy, as if he were in a fight. And though no one would see them in the comfort of their bedroom, should they have magically glimpsed the interaction, they would have indeed seen he was battling a worthy foe.

He slowly lifted his head, locking his eyes with hers. His intensity was mirrored by her whimsy. "You are just so gentle with me," she chirped, egging him still further.

The hand on her chest slipped up to her throat. He squeezed, slowly taking away her breath. "So...patient...and...nurturing." She forced out the words, then brought her hand up to caress the side of his face. He twisted his head away from the touch.

He released the grip on her throat, instead securing his hand under her jaw. Standing up strong, he slapped her on each cheek once, twice, thrice. Random chunks of her hair, now disheveled, fell across her face at awkward angles. "You make me look so pretty," she softly crooned.

She did look pretty. He had to admit that. But this was not about being pretty or sweet or kind. He wanted to break her, had tried to break her, but never could.

She only antagonized him more with each attempt. She had learned early that the taunts made him angry. She loved his anger, fed off his rage. He wanted her to beg for him. She never had.

Each time, it always ended the same way:

He'd punch her chest. She'd call him her "big strong man." Then she'd caresses his chest. Her thigh would graze his throbbing manhood. She'd bring her lips close to his, but never gave him a kiss. And as she would back away from him, teasing him, the want, the need in his eyes would appear. And she had won.

Though he had lost, he almost always enjoyed the victory lap.

Seeing the look, the need in his eyes, she placed a hand on his shoulder and pushed. As he sunk down to his knees, her other hand lifted her skirt. She wore no underwear. Lifting a leg, she rested her thigh onto his shoulder.

His lips quickly found her clit. Her hands gripped his short dark hair, moving his head, angling his work, fucking his face. One of his hands was allowed, this time, to reach up her skirt and squeeze her ass. The other had two digits bound for her soaking wet pussy.

She rode him hard, sinking down on his hand, and slamming his head into her crotch. Screaming obscenities, she came, and squirted onto his hand and into his mouth while calling him her Good Boy.

And because he found the magic button, because he ate her right, he would now get to fuck her. When he didn't, when it took forever for her to cum, or when his despair made it difficult to please her, she'd merely push him off, let her skirt drop, and go about her day.

The reason why she always won was simple: she stopped herself from caring about anything but her orgasm. From the moment he initiated the challenge to the moment she came, her focus was on her pleasure. His focus was on her pleading, her begging, her submission. When he asked for it, he got it. When he tried to force it, tried to train her, it was she who trained him. And since he'd fucked her hard the last few times he tried to break her, she thought it was going well.